Chapter 19
Laurent found Marco waiting in his study. He’d just returned from delivering Lily’s cinnamon roll and hot chocolate, too deep in his thoughts to realize Marco had made himself comfortable. Not until he walked into the room and a voice drawled, “I hear you have taken on a new hobby, sire.”
“Fuck off,” he muttered without heat.
Marco merely chuckled. “Is it working?”
“I’m hopeful.” He left it at that, moving over to the liquor cabinet—brand new since he’d smashed the other. He poured them each a drink before taking a seat. “Well?”
Marco ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been discreet, but I haven’t found any additional information on your father’s ruby. Rumors—vastly exaggerated, I’m sure. Nothing to explain how it could be connected.”
He hummed, not exactly disappointed. He hadn’t expected Marco to find much, if anything. Still, it left them no closer to answers.
“There was one interesting bit of information I came across,” Marco said. “At first, I dismissed it. But the name kept surfacing in relation to artifacts. Better still, we have a mutual connection. You’re probably not going to like it, though.”
“Tell me.”
“Does the name Dr. Eleanor Kennedy ring any bells?”
Laurent frowned. “No. Should it?”
“Apparently she did some work with the WBI during that whole mix up with the fae Supernatural Council a few years back. She was involved in that whole Marsh Thadur thing.”
“So?”
“She’s human, with an advanced degree in art history.”
“Again, I fail to see your point.”
“She also happens to be Bastian Croft’s mate.”
Laurent swore. He tipped his drink back, draining it before setting it on the table. “And this Dr. Kennedy is some sort of artifact expert?”
“According to rumors, yes. She even hunts them down.”
He grunted. “Well then, I think I need to call in a favor.”
It was late but not too late for most supernaturals. He picked up the phone and made the call, listening to the phone ring. “Bastian Croft,” came the grumbling voice on the other end.
“Croft,” he said, “I need a favor.”
“Well well fucking well. Never thought I’d see the day, Laurent. Never in a million years.” Laurent scoffed. “What could I possibly do that your blood-spawn ilk cannot?”
Marco snorted, clearly eavesdropping.
“You know I wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important.”
“Hmm…” There was a pause. “Is this about the Red Allure flooding the market?”
Laurent hummed in confirmation. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Bastian Croft was good—almost too good.
“Thought so,” Bastian grumbled. “What do you expect me to do about it? I hunt high profile people, Laurent. Don’t give a shit about drug dealers.”
“I’m looking for information on an object. It’s not something I want to discuss on the phone.”
“I don’t deal in objects—“
“No, but I hear your mate does.”
A low, possessive growl filled the receiver. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, Laurent.”
The line went dead. He swore under his breath and immediately redialed. Bastian picked up, but remained silent.
“I’m desperate, Bastian.”
“No.”
“Bastian—“
“No.”
“Name your price.”
He heard a female voice on the other end, too quiet to make out. There was a long hesitation and then, “I want five million—“
“Done.” His jaw ticked.
“And my girl stays here—“
“Your girl is part of the deal. I want this situation sorted. If she’s your source, she comes. I’ll have my jet pick you up in the morning—“
“Not happening, Laurent. Got shit going on over here. Can’t be out for another two weeks.”
“Two—?! I’m paying you five million—“
“Take it or leave it, Laurent. I’ll text you the date and time. You can send your jet.”
“Too much can happen in that time frame. Half my family could be gone.”
“Then you had better start making more.”
A low growl built in his chest. Bastian answered with a long sigh. “It’s my final offer, Laurent.”
“Fine,” he snapped.
“And I swear to the gods, if any of your bloodsuckers so much as look at my girl with that fucking bloodlust shit in their eyes, I will destroy every fucking one of you.”
“You’re doing this as a favor to me. You know I’m good for it. No harm will come to either of you.”
“My girl’s pregnant,” Bastian added. Warning enough. Mates were protective, but even more so over unborn offspring. “I don’t want her near any of you fuckers. So you’d better be good for it.”
“Bastian,” he said, his irritation growing. “Five million. Fourteen days. I’ll send the jet. She comes, or we have no deal.”
“Agreed.” Bastian disconnected.
Marco shook his head, incredulous. “He doesn’t ask for much, that asshole.”
“His mate’s pregnant. I’m surprised I got him at all.”
“Well, he’s probably thinking about college funds…”
“For an unborn baby?!”
Marco’s lips twitched. “Parents plan early these days.”
“Get out,” he snapped. Seconds later, Marco was gone, and he was left to think it all over.
But try as he might, his focus strayed to one thing, and one thing only.
Lily. She’d become his greatest distraction.
He hated it. He loved it. He needed to get her the fuck out of his head before he drove himself mad.
That was easier said than done.
As each day blurred one into the next, he found Lily occupying more and more of his thoughts.
He continued with the cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate—which he could now make with his eyes closed.
To put her at ease, he kept the same schedule, dropping by her room at ten thirty, so that his presence was never a surprise.
He was patient, careful. He didn’t linger.
He went out of his way to make her comfortable.
Eventually, he faced his first victory when she offered a soft, “Come in,” after he’d knocked. It was the first time she allowed him to enter on his own. He took that as a good sign.
Even thinking of it now left him hopeful, as he typed away on his laptop. Perhaps things would get better from here. Gods only knew he could use a break.
His fingers froze.
He smelled her first, then heard the anxious beating of her heart, the hesitant sound of her footsteps as she walked past his study.
For a moment, he couldn’t move, too overcome by shock.
Then he moved to the door, silently cracking it open.
The scent of her hung heavy in the air, making his mouth water, making his gums ache.
Lily stopped near the end of the hall, just outside the drawing room.
He waited and watched. She glanced around before entering with what suspiciously looked like his sheet music clutched against her chest. His ears pricked, listening to the faint sounds as she padded barefoot across the drawing room and slid out the piano bench.
The first notes of the piano startled him out of his thoughts. He gravitated down the hall, stopping just outside to lean against the wall. His eyes closed, listening to her play. Ever so slowly, his muscles began to relax.
She was no prodigy. Lio had been a true talent, with nearly a hundred years to perfect the art.
Her skill was rudimentary but competent.
She couldn’t have been playing for more than a short span.
A few years, at most? And yet, her interpretation of the music was beautiful, compelling.
He found himself sucked in, a slight smile growing on his lips, even after she stumbled over some of the notes, going back and ironing out various sections to perfect them.
She gave the piece the life it yearned for.
Vittorio appeared beside him to lean against the opposite wall. Moments later, Hassan came. He wanted to growl at them, to send them away. He wanted to keep each mournful note for himself.
The longer she played, the more her scent changed. Like it did the first time she played. It sweetened—a heady mix of pleasure and joy.
This simple moment felt like a monumental achievement.
Eventually both Vittorio and Hassan departed, but not before sharing a knowing look with him. It felt like a small victory. One they had all been working toward.
Time bled one moment into the next. Perhaps she played for a handful of minutes, perhaps hours. He let the wall support him, let his mind wander, until her playing stopped. Only then did he retreat to his study.
Later that night, he found himself in the kitchen at eight. “Sire, I believe you can manage on your own tonight?”
“That remains to be seen.” He pulled the folded sheet of printed paper from his pocket. “Found this online. I might need you to walk me through it.”
He wouldn’t admit to Vittorio that he’d spent at least an hour combing through Beatrice Pemberton recipes. Wouldn’t admit that he’d put a great deal of thought into what Lily might like. What might please her.
Surely she was growing bored of cinnamon rolls. He was. He’d rather try something else.
Vittorio appeared genuinely curious. “Blueberry muffins, sire?”
He shrugged. “You think she’d enjoy them?”
“From Beatrice Pemberton? I’m certain of it. Let me gather the ingredients.”
“I’ll make them. Just look over my shoulder to ensure I do it correctly.”
“Of course.”
Strangely enough, he found that he enjoyed the monotony of baking. It was easy to see why Vittorio chose to spend hours in the kitchen. There was something rejuvenating about it.
The following evening, he decided on another Pemberton recipe. A tray bake, which was a strange mix of cookies and brownies that intrigued him. The evening after that, cupcakes. He made those three nights in a row to try different flavors. First chocolate, then carrot, then butter yellow.
Soon more than a week had passed, but each night was more trying than the last. He found himself yearning to watch her reaction to his efforts, to watch her eat what he’d made.
More than that, he wanted to sit with her, to keep her company, to know her better.
He found himself lingering longer in her presence, even if it was to merely ask about her day or how she was feeling.